


Untitled

by lanthano (epilanthanomai)



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 05:09:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epilanthanomai/pseuds/lanthano
Summary: For the birthday challenge.





	Untitled

While they were packing their cousin Davie's things, their Ma worked the storefront for the closing sale. Davie's Ma, their Ma's sister, had passed three years before, and the house hadn't had a proper cleaning since then. The dirt on the lino floors was so caked on Murphy was on his hands and knees, scrubbing with the stiff brush they'd found in the kitchen. Connor sorted through the front hall closet, a dusty record of a family over time—old shoes and coats too worn to be handed down, Davie's school projects, the remnants of All Hallows Eve costumes: torn sheets and tiaras and aluminum pirates' hooks. There was nothing worth keeping to remember him by, and nothing worth selling for the collection tin, so he bagged it and closed the door. The hinges squeaked and Murphy jumped, spilling water down the length of the hall. He covered his face, then reached for a rag to dry it, chewing on his lip and keeping his eyes down, away from Connor.

Murphy hadn't liked Davie, and that'd been a surprise for everyone—Murphy not like someone?—and they'd ribbed him until he became oversensitive about it, and wouldn't mention his name at all. It was something Connor accepted, like him liking bananas, or preferring rugger to footie when it was the opposite for Murphy. He'd brought it up once and then tabled the issue. What did it matter when they had passels of cousins, when half the town could be traced one way or another back to the MacManus line?

Connor moved on to the master bedroom, boxing the books in the small case, passing over the ornaments their Aunt had collected. Their Ma would want a look at those. The room needed a new coat of paint, and it'd take a lot more than that Saturday to make the house clean. Connor left the room and tracked down Murphy, who was swirling the brush through the cloudy water, making spirals and whirlpools, eddies dying out at the edge of the bucket. Connor swallowed down the lump in his throat and said to Murphy, "Let's get out of here."

They went walking in the streets behind the house, past the kids flying kites in the park, past the old men at their chess. They sat in a corner booth in the cafe. Connor ate strawberry rhubarb pie while Murphy stirred more and more sugar into his coffee. He stopped suddenly, spoon clinking against the mug, and said, "He deserved it, you know."

Connor stuttered for a moment, processing, "You're completely cracked. Davie didn't deserve anything, he was fighting for the cause."

Murphy scowled and shook his head, his voice rising, "He wasn't a soldier, he was a boy. This isn't right if we're the ones dying."

"This is our home, and it's ours to defend, Murphy. You should be proud of Davie."

Murphy scuffed the carpet and stilled his hands, knuckles white against the edge of the table. "Davie's dead. What's left of him wouldn't fill a shoebox, much less a coffin. This isn't working."

Connor flipped some coins onto the table and pulled Murphy out of the cafe, yanking on his sleeve until they were out of hearing range of the people inside. "You keep your voice down about this, do you hear me?

Murphy jerked his arm away from Connor, shoulders hunched, Atlas bearing the world. He said, "You think all this is on your behalf? Every time Sinn Feinn does something all that happens is more fucking English come over. Connor, I can't sleep when the helicopters fly over, I just think of all those soldiers we're making angry. The last thing we need is an angry army, but if we keep baiting them that's what they'll be, they'll all be enemies."

Murphy was washed in the evening light, pale skin glowing, his tiredness showing in the dark smudges under his eyes. Fingerprints. Ink stains. Awkward still, growing into himself. All knees and elbows, school ties and trousers he'd grown out of. He looked scared. Connor turned away, and asked, "Do they have a suspect yet?"

"For all they care he blew himself up tinkering in the back room. A science project, they said."

"Now what kind of man keeps rockets in a church?"

Murphy cuffed him on the shoulder, his voice almost back to normal, "He's your cousin." He chewed his lip again, licking at the blood that seeped from a small split.

Connor sighed, "Ah, Murph, he's your cousin, too," and for a moment it seemed Murphy might cry.

He said, "Should add pietas to your veritas. Have it straight across your heart."

Connor looked for a cigarette but his pack was empty. He reached into Murphy's pocket for one of his and closed his hand around Murphy's arm, trying to say, Here I am, I'm here, I'm not leaving. He was a right mystery, his twin, but given enough time he'd sort him out. Murphy's hair was all tousled from his fretting—like a wet dog's fur, like a penguin's crest, like Murphy, known and unknown.

In two days they'll be sixteen. They are almost men, they _are_ the men of the household, in all the ways that count. The day before their fifteenth birthday, Murphy got caned by Father Brennan for chewing the Eucharist at morning mass. Declan Cormac was stuck waiting his turn outside the office—the listening worse than the beating, he said—and he told Connor about it in study hall. Connor'd turned back to his dictionary—democracy: demokratie; vote: stimme—and thought how wonderful it was to be young, to have a birthday, to have a brother. And now they will be men, and Davie will never take the body of Christ again.

Murphy gripped his hand, his fingers like iron bands, like Ma's hands, and Connor focused on the kids chasing each other around the field. Racing each other. Girls giggling, boys holding sticks, all with voices so high they sounded the same. There were no parents, they were all working, just the kids released from school. A girl was blowing bubbles; two boys had an imaginary fire. Four children were climbing trees. There were bullet casings scattered in the grass, and Connor decided to just stop paying attention.

Connor said, "What do you fancy getting Ma for her birthday? Perfume?" He tugged at Murphy's sleeve, and they both started walking back.

Murphy grinned, and said, "Naw, ballet tickets. Poncy buggers in tights, and girls twice as tall as you."

Connor hooked his arm over Murphy's shoulder, smiling back, "As long as we understand that I'm still the taller one, I don't mind looking up to a few girls."

Murphy looked horrified, his voice sliding up in disbelief—his "What?" an octave higher than usual—and Connor pulled him close, feeling the solidity of him, the familiar texture of his hair, how real and sure he was, how present.


End file.
